In my undergrad literature classes, we often talked about the form and content of literary pieces; how some pieces would speak to the reader not just in what they are saying, but in how they are saying it and how both of them feed into each other to put across a point so poignantly that it is sure to leave a mark. Some of my most favourite works with this kind of writing are Toni Morrison’s ‘Beloved’, Virginia Woolf’s ‘The Waves’ and Samuel Beckett’s ‘Waiting for Godot’. Peeling back the layers of the narrative to uncover the multitudes of meanings (un)hidden in these stories have been some of the most joyous moments of my life.
When things stop making sense, they almost always stop making sense in entirety.
But it continues to intrigue me that if you are someone who turns to writing to make sense of things, the meaninglessness and the chaos also become a part of how and what you write.
I am saying all of this to convey, in some capacity, that things have been tough at my end and I think a lot of people can relate to it. As you may have already noticed, the usual sectioning and format that this newsletter comes with are missing this time. It was a struggle to get myself to write it in the first place, let alone structure it like I usually do. There has been a gradual (or maybe not so gradual?)
d i s i n t e g r a t i o n
of most of my anchors over the months. I was somehow able to hold my ground for the most part but the last few weeks have made it more and more difficult to continue doing that. Earlier, I was binge reading to the extent that the number of books I have read this year is more than the number of books I have read in my entire life so far (though I wasn’t much of a reader for most of my life so this may come off as an unnecessary exaggeration but it’s still a truth that amazes me). I was mindlessly binge-watching shows, only to later be agonised by unbearable guilt for doing that. But now, I have just been feeling numb. and blank. And when I realise I haven’t been able to write much, I absolutely lose it even more. I mostly cope by writing how horrible everything is and so on. So I have been trying to gather at least some words in the hope that it would stop feeling so heavy. But I have been coming up empty-handed every time.
There is a special kind of madness in not being able to articulate all that is tormenting you, in feeling as if it is so huge no words can contain it.
So no words come out. Where there was once an opportunity or even a willingness to share, there are only blank pages and hollowed silences now. Feelings seem inaccessible.
Words seem inaccessible.
It is at moments like these that you truly appreciate the privilege of being able to externalise your sorrows, of holding them through words however insufficient they may feel.
There is a special kind of loneliness in searching for something that feels close to your sorrow but coming up empty-handed.
I have been desperately looking to hold on to something that feels close to how I am feeling, what I am going through so that I can hold it in my palms. But the exhaustion built in this search is manyfold. And I wish that whenever something troublesome comes upon us, the universe brings with it someone to sit beside us through it. Someone who has been through it too. Someone who just knows. Just understands. Just sighs and nods with you. Someone who does not need any recounting of the whats, the whys and the hows.
Someone, who, just knows.
————
I am also having a hard time letting myself bend my own rules for this newsletter. Since I started writing it, as much as they have encouraged me and cheered me on, my friends have also repeatedly reminded me that it is something I created so it’s okay if it goes a day late some months or doesn’t go like I want it to. Despite knowing all of this, I just could never let myself do it. It felt wrong, like I will be betraying my readers. But I think these are the moments when we remind ourselves that if we are betraying ourselves, that’s the biggest disservice to who we are and what we do. So this month, when it got nearly impossible for me to go back to my regular programming, I thought to myself that either it won’t go out this month or it won’t go out the way it always does. For what it’s worth, I am glad I eventually went with the latter because it means a lot for me to show up for this space, it means the world to me to have you all show up for me here. I think, unwittingly, this edition turned out to be like a year-end summary of the chaos that this year has been, globally, altering our lives in our little corners of the world in ways we are yet to fathom.
uncertainty. confusion. grief. helplessness. estrangement. chaos.
Now, I am nearing the conclusion of this month’s newsletter and while we (rightfully so) look for some sort of hope and/or containment when things end, I am afraid I may have neither to offer. As Mari Andrew writes, I am going to “let it be dark. Let it be unclear. Let ambiguity teach lessons that only ambiguity can teach. Let contradictions exist without forcing them into oppositions. Let “I don’t know” be a valid answer.”
I would, however, end with a list of things I am ungrateful for, this year (yes, all the positivity gurus telling you to make a gratitude list, well…..).
I am ungrateful for the indifference and the apathy with which we can turn our backs on some people, as a country and as a people.
I am ungrateful for the scorn that chronically ill people have always met with for rightfully demanding the things that the world is now becoming more accepting of because of the pandemic.
I am ungrateful for never being able to feel home in my body enough to be able to tell the difference between the usual discomfort and uneasiness I feel due to my chronic illness and possible COVID symptoms.
I am ungrateful for the hardships that some of the relationships in my life had to go through because of the vast islands of distance that sprang up between us this year.
I am ungrateful for the losses that so many of us have suffered this year.
I am ungrateful for the dismissal of the importance of empathy and compassion in professionals across all sectors, specifically, medical professionals.
I am ungrateful that while this year may have been the worst year for a lot of people in the world, I still can’t say that for myself. Because the worst year of my life will always be the year that repeatedly told me I don’t deserve to exist.
I am ungrateful for all the hurt and pain in this world.
I am ungrateful that physical distancing has become a legit thing.
I am ungrateful that touch is something we are now wary of.
“My act of resistance is simple. I will have a healthy respect and fear of the virus. I will maintain physical distancing for now. But I will not be afraid of your body.
I will not kill off my yearning to touch you. I will let it guide me. I will fantasise about it. I will write about it. I will draw it. I will remember us cuddling in January, mad dancing in the protest last July. I will feel the soft skin of your precious hand in mine. I will embrace you as you cry and cherish the wetness of your tears on my blouse. I will feel the fire of rage in my belly and the impossible sorrow in my throat. And I will learn over time how to translate this hunger for your body, for your burning skin, into the making of this most necessary new world.” : V, ‘Touch saved me from loneliness. What will we become without it?’
P.S.: If you are inspired to make your own ingratitude list, I’d love to see it, so that we can be ungrateful together and hold each other through it!
P.P.S: A part of this format is inspired by my most favourite newsletter, ‘At The Bottom Of Everything’.
A Request: If you would like to monetarily support my work and help me keep this newsletter going, please donate here or you could contribute directly to adishi@icici. Thank you! 💛